


letters from carmelo (the dead poets society)

by captain_clover



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Poetry, Private School, Roommates, Slow Burn, What Will They Do, go watch dead poets society, private school boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29776068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_clover/pseuds/captain_clover
Summary: A story about roommates, cigarettes, rich boys with daddy issues, and the art class that saved them from jumping off the roof of Carmelo Academy.(loosely based on The Dead Poets Society)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. prologue (dear family)/the study group

**Author's Note:**

> :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George somehow finds himself making friends.

**prologue (dear family)**

Dear family,

Thank you again for the opportunity you’ve given me at this new school. I assure you that it won’t go to waste. I can already feel how my life will change at Carmelo.

In only a week at this school, I have witnessed the most peculiar things. My roommate, Clay, is one of them. I use “peculiar” with no negative connotations; he’s actually been a positive influence on me. You might be happy to hear that my roommate is one of our school’s athletic stars. He introduced me to his study group, and now I attend sessions regularly.

The extra help isn’t necessary, but it is beneficial, so please don’t think I’m wasting my time. It keeps me sharp. Some of the other boys are taking classes that I don’t share with them, and if we have spare time, they teach me what they’ve been working on. One of the juniors, Karl, is taking the honors biology class that I had switched for honors chemistry last year, so he’s giving me lessons that I missed out on.

His roommate, Nick, is a bit more eccentric than most of the people here, but I suppose in a school of teenage boys we’re bound to have at least one of those characters. I fear you’d think of him as bad company, but he still maintains high grades, so for now, I consider him a friend.

This is all very exciting, but I think the most interesting part of this school is the art class. Our new teacher, Mr. Phil, is

George’s pen came to a slow stop. The ink pooled into an ugly spill, turning his last sentence into an illegible black circle. He crumpled the page into a ball and sent it into the empty wastebasket with a soft clang.

The door opened, letting in both Clay and the yellow hallway light. “What was that?” he asked, eyeing the bin.

“Letter to my parents,” George replied, the words leaving his mouth dry and bitter. Clay made a small ‘o’ with his mouth and closed the door behind him. He dropped his own textbooks on his desk before swiftly reaching in and snatching the scrapped page. “What are you doing?” George asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You think I’m peculiar?” he laughed, scanning the words. “How sweet.”

“Yeah, whatever.” George watched his eyes as they traveled down the letter. He absorbed every too-formal sentence in his calculating gaze, and then he rejected them all. His nose scrunched up as he finished.

“Yeah,” he snickered, “this should stay in the bin.” They laughed as Clay balled it up again and returned it to its rightful place in the trash. He hopped onto George’s twin bed and leaned over the foot end to watch him write. “Are you stuck?” he asked.

“I never know what to say to them,” George admitted, pressing the tip of the pen to his lips.

“Just say what’s on your mind.”

“You make it sound so easy,” George snorted. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then don’t send it,” Clay replied bluntly. “It’s as easy as that.”

George blinked at him, feeling a little dumb. When he didn’t receive the explanation he was waiting for, he pieced it together himself, and yes - he didn’t have to send it. It was as easy as that. Clay watched him write:

Dear family,

Carmelo’s changing my life, but not in the way you thought it would.

**chapter one: the study group**

“Father, I can handle both,” George protested. “At my old school- “

“This is a private boarding school, son,” his father replied. “The activities won’t be the same as the public school nonsense you’re used to.”

“But- “

 _“George.”_ His spine straightened immediately, reacting to the shift in tone like it was second nature. He shut his mouth and bit his tongue to stop his pleading. “Don’t talk back to me in public. Don’t talk back to me ever. Especially not here.”

“I… I’m sorry, Father. Sir.” In a moment of regretful desperation, he let his thoughts spill out like word vomit. “I’m sorry. I just- you know me, always trying to do more. I just thought that maybe I should try and get the most out of this school, and- “

“Alright,” his father said, interrupting him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He sighed in the tired way that most middle-aged office lackeys did. He was a tall, wiry man; his stature alone was nothing to fear, but when combined with his icy persona and iron will, he was a figure to avoid. George knew. “It’s alright. See - I am here to guide you. And this last year is the most important. You cannot slip, not now and not at this school.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” They stood about, listening to the chatter of the incoming students. “Your mother is in the car already. We’ll see you in a few days.” George nodded. He wished his mother, who had once just been mom, would come and say goodbye to him. His father gave him a handshake and briskly left, carrying his aura of self-importance with him. Before he disappeared into the crowd, he finished with, “And son? If you truly value your future, you’ll choose to drop the art class.”

George didn’t wait around to see him leave. He turned, pushing himself off the wall and into his dorm, his new home for the next two semesters.

“Hey.”

“Oh my god!” George gasped, stumbling back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here already!” He stopped, leaning against the door frame and catching his breath. _Fuck,_ he thought, _calm down._

 _So this is Clay._ He’d heard plenty about his roommate, the golden boy of Carmelo Academy. He was the athlete, the well-renowned, outgoing model student with the charming smile. The school had even put his photo in their advertising pamphlet, right on the front page. George observed (subconsciously, of course) that his dark blonde hair and tanned skin looked even better in person. He only hoped this roommate of his was as friendly and welcoming as people claimed.

After giving George his own onceover, Clay broke out into a wide grin and laughed. It came out as a soft wheeze, reminiscent of some kind of weak teapot. George stayed pressed against the door, returning a confused, nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve been in here for a while now. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Clay said. When the laughing ceased, the easy smile remained. “You’re George, yeah?”

He nodded, swallowing to calm the last of his nerves. He relaxed against the wall, trying to match Clay’s nonchalant atmosphere. “And you’re Clay?”

“Yessir,” he said. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, George, but it sounds to me like you’re in a tough situation.”

“Oh, that- that’s nothing. I just have to take art out of my schedule,” he replied. He ran a stressed, shaky hand through his dark hair. It still felt strange when it didn’t quite last in his fingertips. The regulation haircut he had gotten for the school would still take some getting used to. “Less work for me, right?”

Clay leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he sat. He seemed to consider this before sending George an interrogating look. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “To drop art?”

George stared back, taking deep, steady breaths, unsure of how to respond. _Does it matter?_ he wanted to say.

Just then, a loud voice invaded the small room, filling it with a new, bright energy. “Clay!” said the boy, “Welcome back!” George went unnoticed by the pair of boys entering the dorm. The source of the voice was a boy with light brown hair and even lighter eyes. Everything about him was light. Bouncy, even.

“Karl! Nick!” Clay grinned up at them and stood from the bed to exchange an overdone handshake. George watched. _Low five. Slide. Hook. Fist bump._

“You’re a senior now, dude,” said the other boy. He shook the dark bangs from his equally dark eyes and wore a sleepy smile on his face. Standing next to Karl made the contrast between them all the more noticeable. Clay towered over the boy, who towered over Karl, who, thankfully, did not tower over George.

“Yeah, I’m a whole ass adult now,” Clay replied. “One more year and I’ll be out of here.”

“No need to brag,” Nick said. “Maybe you can just sneak me and Mr. Jacobs here out when you graduate.” He threw an arm around Karl’s shoulders and playfully ruffled his hair. Clay scoffed and rolled his eyes lightheartedly before they landed back on George, who was awkwardly obscured by the door.

“Oh! Meet my roommate,” he said. “This is George. George, this Nick and Karl.” He made his way over and placed his large hands on George’s shoulders, causing him to jump a little. “Don’t be scared, they’re just juniors,” he laughed.

“I’m not,” he mumbled too insecurely, trying not to freak out at the sudden touch. He got a friendly wave from Karl and a fist bump from Nick, which helped him relax a bit. The group eased into casual conversation about their summers, treating George like an old friend. It didn't take long for him to realize he'd walked right into what was probably the school's most sociable group.

“You know what my old man said before he dropped me off?” Nick started. “He said - and I quote - ‘Nicholas, if you aren’t taking more honors classes than you were last year, then you’re not pushing yourself to your full potential.’ Can you believe that?” Karl, still attached to him, shook his head sadly. “All this shit about my full potential and he won’t even let me try out the stuff I actually want.”

“Unbelievable,” Karl agreed with a defeated tone. “Well, you know how he is.”

“Y’know, I think George here is in the same boat,” Clay said, clapping a hand on his shoulder again. _People at this school are awfully touchy,_ George thought. “He’s dropping either art or…?”

“Art or debate,” he finished.

“Debate? Dude,” Nick said with a look of disbelief. They all seemed to recoil in unison. “I’m guessing that’s what your parents want you to keep, right?” George shrugged indifferently, which was all the confirmation they needed. “Forget that. Keep the art class.”

“What if I want to do debate?” As he said it aloud, he knew just how absurd it sounded.

“You don’t,” Clay assured him. “Do you?” George didn’t answer that, and that was an answer in itself.

“Just do what I did,” Nick said smugly. “Ignore ‘em, take the classes you want, and then deal with it later.” At this, Karl's gaze shot up from the ground to Nick's sly face above him. He squirmed away from Nick's arm.

“Later?” George asked.

“Yeah man,” he said, falling back into the desk chair, “by the time they send out the first progress cards, it’ll be too late for your parents to switch you out for the semester.”

“Are you being serious?” Karl asked. “Nick- “

He cut himself off with an exasperated sigh and rubbed his hands over his pale face. Nick frowned and turned his dejected gaze to the floor. “Karl- “

“No, no, forget about it.” Even to a stranger like George, it was obvious that Karl did not want to dismiss the topic that easily. Nick gave a little tug on his sleeve that looked as if it was meant to be reassuring, and Karl’s shoulders lost some of their tension. He quickly regained his composure with a deep breath, though the unsettling air in the room remained. “Anyways,” he started, “we’re doing study group tonight, right?”

Clay nodded in confirmation, bringing a smile back to Karl’s face. “We’ll catch you guys after dinner.”

“We?” George asked, starting to feel lost with all his one-worded questions.

“Yeah, we,” Clay said, turning to him with a welcoming smile. “You're coming, right?”

“George,” Karl said, “we’re gonna be around Clay like, all the time. And that means we’ll be crashing your dorm all the time.”

“So you might as well just be our friend already,” Nick finished with a grin. “Yeah?”

George didn’t have to think twice. He accepted their much-appreciated invitation with a warm smile and said, “Yeah.”


	2. carpe diem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The library, the art class, and the first of many days at Carmelo Academy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Dinner was hectic, as expected. Thirty minutes flew by in an instant. Clay dragged George around so he wouldn’t get swallowed by the sea of students. Nick sat waiting for them at the table, accompanied by a seemingly still-upset Karl. They practically inhaled their meatloaf, which, surprisingly, was not horrible. They talked about how much they wished they could decorate their dorms. Then the headmaster came in, promptly ended dinner, and sent them all to their rooms to get a good night’s sleep before the first real day at Carmelo.

“George?” Clay whispered to the ceiling. They’d turned their lamps off only a few minutes ago. White moonlight danced on the wall. The shadows of the dying tree outside their window cut twisted patterns through the light.

“Clay?” he whispered back, shifting uncomfortably in the creaky bed. He pulled the thin comforter over his body and stared at his own wall.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

George blinked in surprise as he considered the question. Then, hesitantly, he answered, “I’m a little scared, I guess.”

“Scared?”

“I’ve never been in a place like this.” He hated how small his voice sounded. “It’s more than a new school, y’know? It’s a totally new life.” He also hated to complain to the roommate he had met just a few hours before, especially when nothing particularly bad had happened yet, but Clay listened. If they were going to live together for the rest of the school year, they might as well build something of a connection. It didn’t hurt that he liked Clay from the get-go.

“A new life,” Clay repeated quietly. “I get it.” A minute of silence passed between them as he thought of what to say next. “What’s your first period?”

“Calculus,” George responded.

“Gross,” Clay said lightheartedly, drawing quiet laughs from both of them. “Same for me. I’ll stick with you if you want. Maybe make things a little less scary.”

George nodded to the wall. “I suppose I’m stuck with you either way, huh?”

Clay gave him another laugh. “Yeah,” he snickered, “yeah, you are.” Though they were barely even friends yet, Clay felt as if he knew George. He could feel him smile, even if he was turned away. His grin grew wider.

“Penny for your thoughts, Clay?” George asked.

“Me?” Clay asked. “I’m doing just fine.”

“Okay.” There was more silence, and Clay started to think George had drifted off to sleep. “Goodnight. And thanks for asking me.” Then his breathing evened out. Clay dozed off listening to the sound.

Homework:  
\- notes on intro to calc (p 6-10)  
\- check out gatsby from library  
\- read first chapter  
\- start gym log  
-

“Whatcha writing?”

 _“Clay!_ God!” George gasped, nearly jumping out of his seat as Clay laughed. “Stop doing that!” They were the only ones left in the common room; all the other boys had raced each other to the dining hall as soon as the lunch bell rang.

“Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. “What’s that?”

“Homework list,” George replied dryly. Clay stood behind him, looking over his head to see the list. George could feel his hands lingering on his shoulders as he towered over him. “I don’t even know where the library is.”

“I showed you yesterday! George, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten my grand tour,” Clay said with mock offense. Over his shoulder, George watched him slap a large hand over his heart, clenching the fabric of his dark blue sweater vest.

“You’re such an idiot,” he snickered, rolling his eyes.

“I’m wounded,” Clay sighed. “It’s okay, Georgie, I can take you back. C’mon, before lunch ends.” He led him down the west wing, the upperclassmen housing building, and out to the courtyard, where Karl sat on a lonely bench. He caught sight of them and offered a weak smile and wave. He didn’t follow.

“I haven’t seen Nick at all today,” George said. “I thought we had the same gym period.” Clay didn’t respond to this, but they both knew he heard what George had said. Instead, he jogged a few steps ahead to get the door, a large, heavy oak thing obscured by the shadows of the arches. The library was not in the central building nor in the spotlight like George assumed it would be. It was no wonder he hadn’t remembered where it was.

“For a high-standard academy, the library is pretty shit,” George muttered as they entered. The door slowly creaked shut behind them, and when it closed, it emitted a loud _click,_ as if locking them inside. The handful of students scattered around the dim room paid them no mind. It was as if they didn’t even hear them come in, which would’ve been impossible considering how quiet the room was.

The only person to acknowledge their presence was the old, old man at the front desk. He gave them a nod and went back to his book. George couldn’t tell if he was reading or simply falling asleep.

“What did you need again?” Clay whispered, looking down at him.

“Gatsby,” he responded. “And you should get one too while we’re here.”

So they did. They found it on their own; they didn’t want to bother the old man, and they weren’t sure he was capable of getting up to assist them anyway. It was smaller than they expected, and as he flipped through it, George said, “This should be an easy read.”

“Yeah? Bet I could finish it before you,” Clay said slyly. George simply rolled his eyes and smiled as they ventured down the rows of aged shelves. The smell of paper overtook their senses. When George tried to take a deep inhale of the scent, he caught the abundance of dust in the air and did his best to silence his sneeze. Clay laughed again. “Your sneeze is so cute,” he teased.

“Shut up,” George snapped, lightly whacking him with his copy of Gatsby. “Doesn’t anyone ever clean this place up?” He enjoyed visits to his local library. He liked the quiet, the cleanliness, the focused and studious atmosphere… all was replaced by Carmelo’s dust. The one place he had expected to find solace in turned out to be a web-infested shithole.

“People come in at the beginning and end of the semester to get what they need, and nine times out of ten the teachers already provide it for them in class. Besides that, nobody really has the time to swing by,” Clay explained. “So, no, nobody cares enough to take care of this place.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Clay said, much to George’s disappointment. “Why? You a big reader, Georgie?”

George shrugged. He was, but he didn’t have to share his nerdy habits in detail. Something caught his eye as they neared the end of the row. _Romeo and Juliet._ He slipped it off the shelf and flipped through the pages.

“Aw, come on. Shakespeare?”

“Gee, sorry if I prefer reading over football, Mr. Athlete,” he shot back sarcastically. Clay snickered and bumped his shoulder, and they knew it was all a joke. The old man behind the dark counter directed his sleepy grey eyes to them. The faint ghost of a smile danced on his thin lips as he scanned George’s second book. The boys thanked him, waved, and ducked out as quietly as possible.

The door clicked behind them again, this time kicking them out. As they returned to the sunny courtyard, George said, “Someone should really fix that place up.”

Fourth period was a drag, and George, who had skipped lunch in favor of renting his books, was hungry and unfathomably irritated by the time he found his next class. Relief tugged at his mind when he saw the study group already in the room, guarding an empty chair that he assumed was his. Still, the sight of his newfound friends was not enough to soothe his anger. He marched over and dropped the ever-increasing weight of his book bag into the seat.

“Whoa, what’s eating you?” Nick said, carelessly leaning back so that the front legs of the chair hovered dangerously above the ground. George only shrugged, fearing that if he spoke, his first interaction with Nick that day would be an unpleasant one. Thankfully, he didn’t bother to ask a second time.

On his right, however, Clay scooted his chair closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. George tried (and failed) to not jump at the contact. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. The concern was evident in his wide, puppy-like eyes. George shrugged again. Clay didn’t move away from his side.

Karl and Nick were on the other side of the long table, exchanging hushed but clearly aggravated words. George could see it in the way Karl’s brows furrowed at the end of Nick’s sentences. They watched them go back and forth until the bell rang. Then everyone immediately silenced themselves and sat straight in their seats, as was custom everywhere in the school.

They waited.

Then they waited some more.

Then they grew tired of the silence, and their backs hurt from sitting so stiff, and they slowly started to resume their chatter. George, not in the mood for conversation, shot an annoyed glance at the clock on the wall. Their own teacher was tardy. _How long has it been, anyway?_

“They’re broken,” Clay said, following his gaze. It was the first thing he had noticed when he entered the classroom. He liked clocks, and he liked when the minute hand told him it was time to leave class. The clocks were always the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he had seen was the setup of the classroom. It was nothing like the other rooms he knew at the academy. The desks had been replaced by long, oak wood tables, accompanied by two chairs on each side. Canvas lined the walls and the tops of the short bookshelves. Some were completed paintings, some were blank, and some were covered in thin white sheets. The windows were cracked open so that the strong smell of paint was carried away by the breeze. He had never been in an art class before. He decided immediately that this was his favorite room on campus.

The third thing Clay noticed was George. He only knew the first half of his schedule, and he wasn’t even sure George had kept the art class on his roster, but he insisted they save a spot for him nonetheless. He kept glancing at the clock, only to be reminded that he wouldn’t know how long he had until the bell rang. He was starting to worry that George had either gotten lost or, worse, had gone to debate class. Then he walked in, and a heavy sigh of relief left his lungs. Never before had he been so excited to see a roommate.

Now, watching him watch a bickering Karl and Nick, he realized just how _small_ he looked. It wasn’t just his height, though Clay had made it well-known that he towered over George. No, it was the reserved demeanor he carried himself with. It was the overwhelming, pent-up frustration that he was undoubtedly feeling. It was the fear that he had talked about the night before. He was silencing himself, and it made him look… small. And George was well aware.

Clay’s thoughts were interrupted by the bright chirp of a whistle. The conversations came to a sudden stop. Standing in the entrance of the classroom was a pale, stocky man with blond hair that was too shaggy for Carmelo regulations. A layer of neatly groomed stubble covered his chin. He disappeared as quickly as he came, leaving the students to exchange puzzled looks. Then, reappearing once more, he called, “Well, come on now!”

The herd followed their unusual shepherd to the main building. They stood beneath the high ceiling of the central foyer, where Carmelo kept its consistently polished, consistently gleaming trophy case. The man came to an abrupt stop right in front of the glass. The herd came to a clumsy stop right behind him.

“Form a shield, boys,” he said, directing them with small waves of his hands. “Around the trophy case, right. Good. Now, forgive me for being late but I couldn’t seem to find my classroom.”

A wave of quiet chuckles and disbelieving smiles ran through the class. He continued, “Your rosters may have me listed as ‘Mr. Watson’. If you were to call me that, you would be incorrect!” More puzzled looks were sent his way, but he remained unfazed. “You call me Mr. Phil, or, better yet, Captain. ‘O Captain! my Captain’,” he said, smiling fondly to himself.

Next to him, Clay heard George mumble, “Our fearful trip is done.” He looked over, but George was looking away.

“Class, come closer,” Mr. Phil - Captain - said, lowering his voice to a nearly inaudible whisper. They all leaned in, crowding around to hear him. “Look at them,” he whispered. “See their faces? The football team, the baseball team, the drama club, hell, even the debate club?” The boys nodded, stifling laughs. “They are all winners. Can you tell me why?”

“Because they have trophies?” Clay tried, his gaze still focused on the glass. His name was there on the plaques, beneath the photos, and across the trophies. He squinted at an unusually blurry photo of last year’s football team, and there he was, front and center. A winner.

“That is what makes the _school_ a winner,” Captain said. “These boys, they are winners because they pushed themselves to victory. _Carpe diem,_ boys, _seize the day._ Whether it be on the field or in the classroom, _seize the day.”_ He paced behind them before coming to a stop to peer over Clay’s shoulder. “And you, son, have _carped_ many _diems.”_

“Yeah,” Clay said, barely attentive, “I suppose I have.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” Clay asked. George had quietly quelled his anger sometime during their fifth period while Clay had been entranced by their teacher’s phrase. _Carpe diem,_ he repeated, _carpe diem._ He pushed it aside for only a moment to check on his roommate, who had also stayed silent throughout the entirety of sixth period history.

“Sorry if I was rude earlier,” he mumbled. “I was hungry. And this campus is so _freaking_ huge. And I’m just… well, I suppose I’m still adapting to all of this.”

Clay smiled lightly, turning on his side so that he could see George staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah? Could’ve been worse though.”

“You could always say that.”

“And it would always be true.”

He pursed his lips as he considered this. Then, hesitantly, he said, “Thank you, by the way. It would’ve been worse if you weren’t around.” The smile that graced Clay’s face couldn’t possibly express the full extent of his joy.

“Glad I could help, Georgie,” he said. He scoffed at the nickname but didn’t protest. He was quickly learning that there was no stopping it. Both boys lay on their backs for a while, letting their minds and bodies rest after a long first day.

Then, as they approached sleep, George asked, “Penny for yours?”

“I’m doing just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. why we bicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George starts to pick up on the little things about his new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

“What the _heck,”_ Karl said through gritted teeth. The boys all sat on the locker room benches, waiting to be released into the gymnasium. Karl hid his face behind the long sleeves of his light grey Carmelo sweatshirt. “He couldn’t even bother to show up for the first week,” he groaned. "Not even the first _two days!"_

“Maybe he’s just late,” George tried. It was no use. Karl was already two minutes into his meltdown and there was no stopping him. Just before he had arrived, Clay had pulled George aside to advise him not to carry the conversation. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time Nick had done this, and it didn’t seem to be the last either. All it did was stress everyone out.

As they walked out, George kept glancing over his shoulder to check on Karl, who was falling behind the group as he sulked. “Clay,” he murmured, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. “Should I be worried?”

A frown lingered on Clay’s face. His brows furrowed as he looked down and explained, “Look, George, this is- well, this is a pretty normal thing with Nick. He usually shows up for at least the first week, but… I guess he’s tapping out already. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of encounters with stoners, yeah?” George nodded. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise that in a school full of teenage boys, some of them smoked. Not even Carmelo could rid themselves of weed.

He felt guilty, but there was nothing that could be done. If anyone knew where Nick was, it would be Karl, and he obviously wasn’t in the loop either. Out on the track, George simply watched Karl kick rocks. He looked up every so often to scan the area, all to no avail.

Karl disappeared as soon as the bell rang. He slammed his gym locker shut and hastily marched out, moving like a man on a mission.

“George,” Clay called. “George, earth to George.”

“Hm?”

“I said I’m gonna sign up for football tryouts. Where are you going?”

“Football tryouts,” George repeated absently, not processing the question.

“No,” Clay snickered. “You’re a stick. It’s much too dangerous for you.” Before George could shoot back a snappy protest, he patted his head and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Library again?”

“Yeah, sure,” George said, swiping at his own hair. “I’ll see you in fifth.”

“Hey,” Clay said, propping the door open with his elbow, “eat this time. We don’t want another angry George incident.” He rolled his eyes in response and waved as Clay headed in the direction of the main building. He made a beeline for the library, once again omitting food from his schedule.

As he cut through the courtyard, he caught sight of a familiar head of brown hair. For the second time in a row, Karl was sitting on the bench, alone. George never thought anyone could look so sad while eating a sandwich. They’d only just met, but Karl needed a friend, and George was the closest thing around. He nervously approached the bench. “Karl, hey,” he said, coming to a stop in front of him.

In his shadow, Karl looked up with watery eyes. He made an effort to swallow his sandwich before offering a meek, “Hi George.”

“You wanna come to the library with me?” he asked.

“Isn’t it kinda crappy in there?” George shrugged. He too found the building offensive, but it was a library nonetheless. Karl sighed in defeat, dropping the sandwich away from him. He then held it up to George and waved it around, saying, “If you take it, I’ll go. I’m sure Clay wants you to eat today.” He hesitantly accepted the food, distracted by what Karl had just said. Clay must have told him that he skipped lunch the day before. Clay talked about him.

They made the short journey to the library’s ominous door in the corner. George jumped when the door shut behind them, then cursed it for being so loud. There were even less people around than before. The Old Man snoozed at his desk. If not for his change of clothes, George would’ve assumed he’d remained unmoved since yesterday. Karl’s nose turned up in a matter of seconds as he conjured up a tiny, delicate sneeze.

“Goodness,” he sniffled, “of all places to hang out, I’m not sure why you choose- oh, hey!” Karl’s energy was quickly restored as he excitedly ran up to a collection of identical black books. He slid out the one on the far right and waved away the light cloud of dust that followed it. “George, come look at this!”

The bindings were all labeled by year, dating back to the thirties. The one in Karl’s hands had _Carmelo Academy, 1973-1974_ across the hard cover, engraved in large silver text. The school’s crest, an elegantly drawn oak tree over a circle of elaborately drawn patterns, was printed below it.

“It’s our yearbook!” Karl gasped, flipping the cover open. He started mumbling to himself, saying, “Freshmen, more freshmen, who cares, soph- oh! Here!” He held the book between them and George followed his finger as he traced over the _J_ section. “It’s me!” he squeaked, finally landing on a photo of a boy with fluffy blonde hair.

George couldn’t resist smiling as he examined the person in the book. Karl almost looked too young to be attending the school. Compared to the photos around him, he looked…

“You look like a child!” George laughed. “You were blonde?”

“Yeah, but my hair darkened a little over the summer,” Karl replied with a smile full of nostalgia. “I think it makes me look older.” Then, moving in sync, they slowly looked behind them to the sleeping Old Man, who had made a strange snoring sound. Karl quietly added, “Not that old though.”

George grinned, relieved to see that Karl’s mood had taken a turn. They began flipping through the book, searching for people they knew. Karl pointed out the seniors that had moved on, telling stories of Sam, the school's “safety patrol officer”, who really just used his power to sneak late-night snacks into the boys’ dorms. He talked about Jack, who conquered his own little corner of the commons room, called it “The Cool Kids Corner”, and wouldn’t let anyone else sit with him.

Then they backtracked to the juniors’ section, where Karl found the picture of another blonde boy. “There he is,” he said quietly, almost like he was in awe.

“That’s Clay?” George asked, though he knew who he was looking at as soon as he saw him. It was hard to forget someone like him; even in a 2-inch photo, he radiated charisma. He’d been all over the yearbook, from the football team to the honor roll recipients. “His hair’s getting longer.”

“Yeah, but he’ll probably cut it soon. He never steps out of line here.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind attending ‘study groups’,” George said, making little air quotes.

“That’s as far as it goes, though,” Karl said with a disappointed sigh. “Clay is… Clay’s too high up there. It’s hard to slip up when your parents and your entire school put you on a pedestal, so he doesn’t even try to get away with stuff anymore. He didn’t even like accepting Sam’s snacks last year.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” George muttered. George, to an extent, could understand the pressure that came from parents. Being the model Carmelo student, however… the more he thought about it, the more draining it seemed. If he felt the exhaustion, he definitely didn’t show it.

“When I met him last year, he taught me how to survive here. I’ve never been around for any, uhm, ‘incidents’, but he said discipline here is pretty rough. He told me about it once. During his freshman year, someone pissed off the headmaster and... “ Karl’s sentence trailed off as the light left his eyes. “Well, I do what he does. Lay low, don’t cause problems, and we’ll be golden.”

“And Nick?” George asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Karl’s face dropped like an anvil off a cliff. _Now I’ve done it,_ George thought, _friendship over. Good job, idiot-_

“Nick has his own reasons for acting the way he does,” Karl said, forcing the words out as if they were poisoning him. “We’ve been roommates for two years now - I’m not sure how the school let that happen - but being around someone for that long makes you care for them. Even if they stress you out.”

George nodded. Though he was still missing more of Nick’s story, he could imagine what might make a person act out like that. He saw Karl’s weary gaze land on the book. He had flipped back to the sophomores’ pages. A boy with dark, floppy hair gave a smug grin from his place in the book.

Karl said, “If someone worries, it’s because they care.”

As they left the musty library, George said, “I bet if they fixed that place up a bit, it’d be a great place to hang out.”

“Believe it or not, I actually really like libraries,” Karl replied. “Just not this one.” They laughed and walked across the courtyard, bound for their next classes. He walked with significantly more energy than before, realizing that maybe he did need to talk about Nick after all. Before they parted ways, he said, “Sorry if I’ve been a drag, George. I promise I’m not usually like this.” He masked his anxious apology with another small laugh.

“Glad I could help,” he replied. “And I still think you’re cool, if that means anything.”

“Cool,” he beamed. “I’ll see you in fifth?”

“See you in fifth.”

Clay stood in the main foyer, staring blankly at the yellow paper posted on the neatly organized bulletin board outside the office. He recognized almost all of the names from his past three years of football. To nobody’s surprise, a simple _T_ was neatly written at the top of the list.

“Are you going to write something or what?” snapped a loud voice behind him. Clay had too much pride to respond to whoever was behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The boy had his arms crossed defiantly over his chest, showcasing his sloppily done grey uniform tie. He had the height of a senior, but his childlike attitude fooled no one. _Freshman,_ Clay thought. He hoped the boy wasn’t signing up for the team.

Now considerably irritated, he snatched the pen from the ledge of the board and scrawled his name on the next empty line. Then, to humor himself, he pocketed the pen and walked away.

“Prick,” the boy muttered.

Clay slowed to another stop in front of the trophy case, standing where he was yesterday. He squinted at the faces of his teammates again, recalling the memories of their past victories. If he could reel in another trophy this year, he’d make Carmelo history. He already did, of course, but it wouldn’t hurt to graduate with another win under his belt. _“Carpe diem,”_ he mumbled, glancing back at the tryouts sheet.

The freshman shot him another dirty glare before leaving in search of a new pen. In his place, a familiar boy in an unbuttoned, wrinkled blazer appeared. “Nick?”

“Hey,” he replied absentmindedly. “Sign up for football again?”

“You know me,” Clay said, trying his best not to sigh.

“Golden boy,” he scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This school has made you its bitch.”

“You know me.”

They started walking in silence. As he attempted to smooth out his blazer, Nick asked, “Is Karl okay?”

“What do you think?” Clay answered with an unimpressed stare.

“Okay, point taken.”

“Obviously not,” he said. Before Nick could argue, Clay continued, “You know, I get that you hate your parents or whatever, but this is a little much, man. You couldn’t even wait till the second week? Really?”

“Okay- what the hell is your point, Clay?”

“My point is that you’re not proving anything to them. You can’t convince them to let you try out new things if you’re not even showing up for what you have now.”

“Please,” Nick scoffed again. “I can’t convince them no matter what. So fuck it.”

The tension at the boys’ art table was palpable. Nick, clearly aggravated, had shown up only because Clay refused to let him out of his sight again. Karl and George exchanged unreadable looks as the other boys took their seats and proceeded to have the world’s most intense staring contest.

Nick opened his mouth to say something, but a happy whistle flowed through the room. “Good afternoon, boys!”

“Good afternoon, Captain,” came the staggered response. He remained unaffected by the table’s lack of enthusiasm and began to pass out small chalkboards. When he reached their table, he held out a small box of colored chalk. Karl quickly snatched up the yellow, Clay thanked him for the green, and George opted for blue. Nick clenched the red in his fist, grumbling about how small and worn-down it was.

“Today, we’re getting to know one another,” Captain said, taking a seat on his desk. “I’m sure you’re all somewhat acquainted, having to live in the same quarters and all, but how much do we really know each other? The seemingly unimportant details?” He scribbled something on his own board in green chalk and held it up for the class. “My favorite color is green. Did you know that?” They all shook their heads, still trying to grasp the point of his activity. “Well, you do now. We’ll start easy like that. What is your favorite color?”

This sent Karl into a nervous sweat. “There’s too many,” he mumbled.

As he walked by, Captain said, “Then write them all.”

Nick busied himself with abusing his chalk, writing out _RED_ in giant, angry letters. Clay watched George neatly print out blue and found himself smiling. George was most definitely a blue person. It just made sense. _Green :),_ he wrote.

They continued on like that, answering simple question after simple question, letting their minds take a break from the day’s hard academics and critical thinking. Clay liked hot chocolate more than any other drink in the world. George was originally born in London, which, despite his accent, Clay hadn’t specifically known before. Their teacher and his family had lived there as well, and he even had Scottish blood. Karl had a younger brother and sister. George’s favorite dessert was ice cream.

Captain said to them, “This is not worthless knowledge! It’s not something to throw away, boys. Even the smallest of details makes a difference, both in art and in people. Do you see now just how much more you know about the people around you?” The activity, with the exception of Captain’s outbursts of passionate lecturing, had an overall soothing effect on the wound-up students.

The only person who had not yet calmed down was Nick. He kept all his answers as vague and unhelpful as possible. He blamed it on his inability to write with “a tiny fucking piece of red chalk”.

“Nick, if I knew you were gonna be a total dick, I wouldn’t have forced you to come to class,” Clay grumbled, finally growing tired of his antics.

“Maybe you should leave me alone then, yeah?”

“Nick,” Karl said almost pleadingly. “Will you at least try?”

The expression on his face softened only for a second. Their current question was about their favorite animals, and Nick hastily wrote his answer, killing what was left of his poor chalk. When they held up their boards, Clay tried his best not to laugh.

George tried, “Nick, your- “

“Your board is upside down, idiot,” Clay wheezed.

“What? It says _pandas,_ dumbass!”

“I’m not sure what a ‘sapnap’ is, son, but I’m sure they’re wonderful creatures,” Captain said. A warm, teasing smile danced in his eyes as he watched the boys bicker. They were rowdy. In any other room on campus, they would’ve been a disturbance, but the Captain allowed it. Disturbances were _lively._

From the corner of the classroom, a boy sat low in his chair. Despite his height, he managed to go unnoticed by the people around him. That’s how things were for him. He watched his loud, bright classmates from his tiny grey corner, hiding behind his own curtain of curly brown hair. He wished he could be loud too.

“You’re almost done? Already?” Clay asked in shock. George looked up from his page at his roommate, who had just returned from the showers. He tousled his own damp hair with a towel before tossing it over his desk chair and promptly falling onto George’s bed. The center of the mattress sank heavily beneath their combined weight, pushing them shoulder to shoulder.

“What? You upset that I finished it faster than you?” George teased. “I thought you were gonna… what’d you call it? Speedrun the book?”

“I’m not a reader, Georgie, I’m just a competitor. And I know when I’m beat, so, congrats,” he said with a soft smile. George, with minimal help from their study group, had also zoomed right through his assignments. The fond smile wouldn’t leave Clay’s face; his roommate was a wonder.

“Quit staring like that,” he laughed quietly. “You’re being weird.”

“You should read to me,” Clay said. “I mean, could you? Read to me?”

“Clay, I’m literally on the last page,” he said.

“Okay, and?”

George blinked at him as if trying to figure out how serious he was. Finally, he gave in, reading:

“He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… and one fine morning-

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

George closed the book. Clay was watching him intently, clinging to his every word, even though he hadn’t yet read enough of the story to quite understand the ending. It was making George’s face burn in the most unusual way.

“There, I read to you,” he mumbled. “Quit staring now, idiot!”

Clay let out a genuine, heartfelt laugh. “I just thought that was really neat,” he said, sincerity overflowing in his words. “Not sure I understand the ending, though.”

“Then read the rest of the book,” George replied.

“Read it for me.”

“Do it yourself, you’re so lazy!” he laughed, smacking Clay in the arm with his copy. “Besides, I don’t wanna read it again so soon. I have another book to move on to.” They both turned to the awaiting copy of Romeo and Juliet on his desk.

“How about this then,” Clay proposed. “I’ll read Gatsby if you read that to me.” He gestured to the play behind him and raised his eyebrows. He was going to read Gatsby either way - he needed to, for his own homework - but George didn’t need to be reminded of that.

He didn’t respond for a long while. “George?” Clay tried again. “Penny for your thoughts?”

He blinked back into reality. “Oh,” he said, “I mean… sure, if you really want me to. But you might not like it very much. And it’s a play, so I’d have to read all the parts, and it might get confusing- “

“Hey,” Clay said, bringing him back down from his growing tower of worry, “I don’t mind. I think if you were reading it, I’d actually start to understand Shakespeare.” That was most likely a lie, but it brought a reassured smile to George’s face, and that was all that mattered.

“Okay then.”

“Yeah?” he asked, grinning.

“Yeah.” Then they were back in their own beds, pulling their blankets up to their chests. “I hung out with Karl at lunch today,” George said to the ceiling. “Saw your old yearbook photos too. He really looks up to you.” He skipped what he’d said about Clay’s unwavering commitment to the school.

“I’m glad you guys hung out,” he replied. He supposed he should be glad to hear that Karl saw him as a role model, but…

 _I’m not a role model,_ he thought, _I’m just some guy._

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pass his conformity and high-pressure expectations down to anyone, especially not one of his best friends.

“I think Nick and Karl will be okay, yeah?” George said, hoping for confirmation.

“Of course,” Clay said. “We fight, George, but that’s just because we care. I think the day we stop arguing is the day we should be worried about.”

It was similar to what Karl had said to him in the library. “Do you think that day will ever come?” he asked.

The answer came immediately and with the light undertones of a smile. “No, I don’t think so. Not on my end, at least.” George smiled to himself as well; he’d gotten lucky with his roommate. He was caring.

“Penny for your thoughts, Clay?” he mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m doing just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> I hope I tricked you into reading Gatsby  
> Seriously though, thank you to everyone who commented so far, y'all are making me extra hyped to keep writing this!!


	4. (his) pretty bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first official meeting of the Dead Poets Society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Wilbur didn’t mean to be a stalker.

It just so happened that that rowdy group of boys from his art class were _everywhere._ It was common to run into people on campus, considering the fact that they all lived together, but they were turning up in every corner of Carmelo, and it was getting ridiculous. He wondered if they noticed how often he ended up in their presence. Probably not.

They were in his art class, in the courtyard, in the foyer…

In the commons room, the bathrooms, on the bridge…

Especially that blonde one. He was in the trophy case. He was even on the school pamphlet.

They were all over the west wing, in his classes, and, now, in the library. Despite their best efforts, they were the loudest ones in the room. The Old Man was either asleep or too hard of hearing to care. Wilbur was forced to eavesdrop as they wandered around, giving their angry friend a tour.

“This is a pretty shit grand tour,” Nick grumbled, wiping his nose. “George, it’s so _old_ and _dusty._ And there’s a _fossil_ in here!” He pointed accusingly at the Old Man. He didn’t budge.

“Nick! Don’t say stuff like that, geez,” Karl said, though he was sporting a humored smile. He latched onto Nick’s arm and dragged the dizzy boy over to the yearbooks. “Check this out,” he said excitedly.

They settled down after that. George and Clay had retreated to their own small corner. Wilbur could hear them murmuring somewhere behind the old fiction, saying something about one Tom Buchanan. He was about to leave, convinced that there was nothing more to observe, when a dramatic gasp came from Karl.

“Guys! Come look at this!” he whisper-shouted, beckoning his friends. They were huddled around another yearbook, one that, judging by the empty slot on the shelf, was dated back to the fifties.

“No way,” George giggled, using Clay’s arm as a balance beam as he leaned closer to the photo. “No way! It’s really him!”

“He went here?” Clay mumbled more to himself than anyone else. “Dang, he looks kinda… dorky.”

“Well, he did grow up to become a teacher,” Nick pointed out. “We should totally show him this.” Wilbur finally looked up from his book, his interest peaked. If they were discussing what he thought they were discussing, then he might just have an opening into their conversation. All he had to do was approach.

“Look,” Clay said, sliding his finger down the brittle paper. “Honor Roll, President of the Dead Poets Society.”

“The Dead Poets Society?” George repeated. “What’s that?”

Neither Clay nor Karl had an idea of what it was, and they were two of the most well-informed Carmelo devotees. Nick said, “We could just ask him, yeah?” They nodded in agreement and crowded around the counter, startling the Old Man back into consciousness.

Wilbur looked on. _This is your chance,_ he thought. _Just go up and talk to them._

_Move, you! Before they leave!_

_Just say hi._

_Just say hi._

They blew right past him, and the door announced their exit with its loud click. Wilbur silently returned to his book.

“Mr. Watson!” Clay called. “Mr. Watson?” The four boys walked close behind the man, eager for answers. So far, he had done nothing to acknowledge their presence, though he was very well aware of their dog-like following. Finally, as they crossed the football field on the outskirts of the school, Clay tried, “Captain?”

He turned around, nodding at them with that mischievous glee in his wise blue eyes. “Boys,” he said, then turned to Nick. “Sapnap, I see you’re here as well. Are you lot still going about, creating a ruckus?”

Their faces started to heat up with a mix of bashfulness and embarrassment. Nick mouthed the nickname to himself, pondering its sound. Karl stepped forward, offering him the large black book. “Captain, we found this in the library today.”

He opened up to the bookmarked page. The boys watched giddily as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh,” he said, “goodness, this was a little while ago.”

“What’s the Dead Poets Society, Cap?” Sapnap asked, genuinely intrigued by something for the first time in days.

Captain’s expression was one of deep, conflicted consideration. His eyebrows knit together as he said, “To be quite frank, boys, that’s not something I could tell you if I were to keep a sound commitment to this school.” They blinked back at him, underwhelmed and dissatisfied. Captain’s eyes suspiciously shifted left to right, as if to ensure the area was clear. He waved them closer and said, “The Dead Poets were liberated. We’d gather a group much like yours, and once, maybe twice a week, meet in the old cave near the river.”

“The one past the west wing?” Sapnap asked, earning a skeptical look.

“You know your way off campus, Mr. Sapnap?”

“No, sir!” he quickly corrected with a terribly forced chuckle. “Not me.” The cave, in fact, had been his go-to spot for the past year, but Captain did not need to know that. Interesting as he was, he was still a teacher.

“The cave - the one past the west wing - was our stage, and we were writers and poets and actors and musicians,” he sighed deep, reminiscing of a time long passed. “And to open every meeting, we would draw from Thoreau.”

He stood straight again, outstretched his arms, and began to recite: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” The boys watched in awe, captivated by the whimsical expression rather than the words themselves. He said, “Then we indulged in our art through the late hours of the night, and we would return before the sun came up.”

“So… you snuck out of school and stayed up all night… to read poetry?”

“No, Mr. Sapnap!” Captain exclaimed suddenly, making them jump. “We _performed_ it! We let the words drip from our tongues like _honey._ We sucked the marrow from life!” Then he added, “That was also Thoreau.”

They were left in awe, staring with childlike eyes as they processed what he had said. George, more than anyone, had been hooked on the concept of a secret poetry society from the very start. It was the very fantasy he had conjured in his mind during their search for the Captain. The other three, however, had heard only one thing: sneaking off campus. To two of them, that was a world-shattering nightmare, a disaster waiting to happen.

“But, boys, that was a long time ago. Don’t get any ideas now,” Captain joked, breaking the fantastical tension. He passed the book back to Karl. “Do me a favor, son, and burn that. No one can ever see that horrible photo of me.” Then he turned on his heel, chuckling to himself as he walked away.

“This is a terrible idea,” Karl murmured, watching his feet as they walked over the uneven ground of the forest. Nearly tripping over a rock, he said, “We should go back.”

“We absolutely should,” Clay agreed, worriedly glancing over his shoulder.

“Then go back, you tightasses,” Sapnap said. “George and I could totally be our own secret society.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with George for a second,” Clay grumbled, carefully watching the boy in front of him as he shuffled through the leaves. They trekked along the “river”, which was really just a glorified stream. Captain had a way of beautifying the world like that. If he hadn’t been so persuasive, the underwhelming reality of the river would have deterred them more. ”I’m only coming along to make sure you don’t get him killed or something.”

“Clay, you don’t have to babysit me,” he said. “Public school kids know all about completely ditching school.” Then he hopped onto a higher rock, shining his flashlight far into the trees. Condensation hung heavy in the air. It gathered on the small boulder, slicking up its surface. George was walking, walking, and then stumbling, slipping and crashing into Clay.

As they untangled themselves and stood from the damp pile of leaves, George apologized a million times in a minute. Clay wheezed, picking a leaf from his brown hair. “You sure you don’t need me to come babysit you? You’re gonna hurt yourself, Georgie.”

He huffed, promptly retracted his apology, and marched along, carrying his pride with him.

“Will you two quit flirting?” Sapnap sighed.

_“What- “_

“I found it!” They followed the sound of Karl's voice and joined him at the mouth of the cave. Shining their flashlights into the low entrance, they could see a lopsided formation inside, creating a pit surrounded by a slanted stone bench. Two more large rocks surrounded the dip in the ground, most likely having been placed there by the original society members.

Sapnap was the first to duck in, quick to relax into his usual spot on the bench. He laid across it and did his best to get comfortable. “Damn, Nick,” Karl said, taking a seat next to him, “you hang out in this hovel?” The pit was damp and smelled of mildew and faint marijuana. Karl yelped as he sat down, feeling the cold water seep into his uniform. He slid the large Carmelo winter cloak off his shoulders and tied it around his waist.

“It’s not that bad,” he shot back, “and Karl? The name’s _Sapnap.”_

“Wow, you’re like a totally new person now,” Karl said, rolling his eyes.

“It smells like weed,” Clay said, turning his nose up in dismay. “They’re gonna smell it on us when we get back.”

“They won’t _know_ when we get back, genius. That’s the whole point of sneaking out, remember?” Sapnap sat up to glare at his friend. “And I’ve done this a million times, so relax. We’re totally fine.” He slipped a box of cigarettes from his pocket and flicked open a lighter.

“Are you seriously doing that right now?”

“I said relax! We’re alone in the middle of the woods and you’re still…”

The voices of his bickering friends faded into the back of his mind. George set down his flashlight, casting eerie shadows over everyone’s faces. He sifted through the contents of his bag, searching for the book, and began to read:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.”

Clay found himself wearing a smile so fond, so soft that had George looked up in time to see it, he might have melted. Karl was staring, processing his words with a faraway look in his eyes. Even Sapnap had no snarky words to say. They were simply stunned.

“George,” Karl finally said, “that was a Captain-level performance, holy crap! Your voice was made for this type of stuff.”

“You should hear what he sounds like at night,” Clay said under his breath, not really wanting anyone to hear. Part of him wanted to keep their late-night reading sessions to himself; George’s best moments were for his ears, his eyes, his mind only. For Clay and for George.

“What?” Sapnap laughed, having been the only one to hear him.

“I- uh, I brought something. I wasn’t sure what else we’d be reading, so- “

“What the hell?” Sapnap laughed again, eyeing the book. To Clay's relief, he seemed to completely forget about what he'd just said. “Romeo and Juliet?”

George could feel his ears and cheeks heating up with embarrassment. He enjoyed literature, and he knew it was nothing to be ashamed of, but he couldn’t help it. He held the book defensively and (unintentionally) began to pout, “Okay, I get that Shakespeare isn’t everyone’s thing, but I doubt you brought anything poetry-related, Nick- Sapnap.”

“I know jack about poetry, George, why would I bring it with me?”

“This is a poetry club!”

Clay cut in, settling a hand on George’s knee in an attempt to calm him. “Just read, George. I’m listening.”

Karl had been silent. He wanted to hear it again: the emotions, the inflection, the performance… he wanted to hear, and so he waited. He crisscrossed his legs and balanced his chin in his hand, leaning forward to leave an elbow on his knee. If he closed his eyes and ignored the fading smell of smoke, he could envision where they were meant to be.

They were at a party - a masquerade ball. A classical waltz was being played by the orchestra, and the patrons were swirling around the ballroom in step with the music. Dark reds and blues and greens surrounded them. The smiles all belonged to nameless, unimportant figures. The only two that mattered were the ones standing off to the side, having their first, magical meeting.

George’s voice fit the story well. Karl was so immersed that he didn’t notice Sapnap watching him, studying the way his brown hair fell over his eyes. He was too busy imagining how Romeo and Juliet must have felt. He wondered what it felt like to find love like that, problematic as it may be.

“Karl?” George asked, suddenly breaking the atmosphere of the story. He held out the book, offering it to him. “Would you like to read?”

“Oh- uh,” he stammered. “I’m not that good at- “

“He’d love to,” Sapnap said, taking the book and dropping it into Karl’s lap. He nudged his shoulder as gently as he could. “Go on,” he said. It sounded… soft. Maybe even encouraging.

So Karl began to read, and he stuttered because he was nervous, and Sapnap’s gaze was not helping. His nervousness was charming, and he giggled when he couldn’t read something correctly, and by the time Romeo and Juliet were on the balcony, they were all comfortable enough to enjoy themselves.

“What is he saying?” Sapnap laughed, reading the lines over Karl’s shoulder. “He wants to be a bird?”

“So he can be held by Juliet,” Karl explained.

“Tenderly,” Clay added with a snicker.

“That’s fuckin’ weird, man,” Sapnap said with a grin and a shake of his head. He suddenly threw his arms around Karl’s waist, pressing his face into his shoulder and crying, “Juliet, _oh!_ Juliet please hold me, for I am a pretty bird!”

Karl laughed and shoved him away, passing the book over. “Hey, pretty bird, it’s your turn to read.”

“No way,” he deadpanned, shoving the book back. “There is no way I’m reading that.“

“Please?” Karl asked, pouting.

“It’s only fair,” George said. “You already made fun of the rest of us.”

Sapnap took one look at Karl’s pleading eyes and folded hands and sighed. “God, fine.” He skimmed the page and recoiled, saying, “‘O that I were a glove upon that hand that I may touch that cheek’? What the hell?”

Karl sighed. “Just shut up and read!”

“Do you want me to shut up or read?”

“You know what I mean!”

“I can only do one or the other, Karl- “

_“Nick!”_

“Okay, okay!” he laughed, looking back at the page. He winced one last time before taking a deep breath and picking up where he left off. For the first time in a while, he felt truly nervous. Karl was watching right over his shoulder, and he was so close that Sapnap could smell the lemon soap on his skin. He did his best.

Karl closed his eyes again. It was different from when George had read. Sapnap's voice was rougher. He stalled more, and he took longer to recover when he struggled, but for some reason, that made his rendition all the more appealing. He apologized when he mispronounced a word, and he continued with a quiet laugh. Karl could hear the grin in his voice, and suddenly he wasn’t listening to Romeo and Juliet anymore. He only heard him.

They were laying in bed, both on their backs and facing the ceiling. Since they returned, Sapnap had been oddly quiet. He knew what had to be said, but when it came to Karl, it was always hard for him to make the first move. He reminded him of a small animal, maybe a rabbit; he worried that if he tried to confront him, he might scare him away. So he started with baby steps. “So, what’d you think?” Sapnap asked.

It took a while for Karl to respond. “About what? The meeting or your performance?” he teased.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he sighed back, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

“Okay, well… I think I want to do that again. Even if it means we have to sneak out.”

“Oh? You a rebel now, Karl Jacobs?”

“No! I mean- no, I’m not! It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal. Well, most of us, that is.” He turned to glare at Sapnap accusingly, resting on his side. “And about your performance…”

Sapnap swallowed hard. He was scared to hear what Karl wanted to say to him, but he listened nonetheless. “Yeah?”

“You did good.” Karl’s voice dropped to a soft whisper. Sapnap turned his head to make eye contact and saw the way the moonlight illuminated half of his pale face, painting him an ethereal white-blue. One hazel eye shined back at him. “I like hearing you, Nick.”

“You can always hear me, Karl.”

“No. You’ve been gone, you’ve been leaving me and when you come back, you’re quiet. And I get worried.”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. The guilt came to him in waves, and every time, he regretted hurting Karl the most. He just wanted an escape. He couldn’t stand Carmelo, but…

“I miss you,” he said so quietly that it almost slipped by. “I get _worried,_ Nick.”

“I’m sorry.” He hated the school and everything it stood for. He hated that his parents disposed of him like he was nothing. He hated the drone of the teachers and the vapidness of the halls and the relentless hours of work, and he figured that if he didn’t enjoy being there, then he didn’t have to be. He could go.

He could go.

But for Karl, he just might stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> sorry! i took a break to focus on uni stuff but i am back and still excited for this fic!


	5. flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay has a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

“Seriously?” Clay cried, tugging on George’s blanket in his excitement. “That’s how it ends?”

George pulled it back to him and rolled his eyes. “Clay, you have to be the one single person on this planet who doesn’t know how Romeo and Juliet ends.”

Clay dropped his head on the comforter, knocking George’s legs through the fabric. He groaned, “I can’t believe they fucking _died._ I mean, if they didn’t end up together, fine, but _death?”_

“It’s meant to be a tragedy, dummy.”

“I thought it was a romance!”

“It’s both,” George laughed. He lightly kicked his legs to move his distressed roommate. Clay rolled over and hopped up, making them both bounce as he landed on the mattress. He leaned his head against the wall and let out another exaggerated sigh. “You’re upset.”

“I don’t know, George, I just wasn’t expecting it. I mean, I guess I should’ve seen it coming, with all the ominous poisons or whatever, but still. They had their whole lives ahead of them.”

George just had to smile. He was surprised to see him so invested in the story, and he was even more surprised when he discovered that Clay had not yet heard how it ended. “Sometimes it just happens, even to the best of us.”

Clay frowned. “That would be like if I just… I don’t know, I got my whole life ahead of me after this year. That would be like if I just kicked the bucket out of nowhere.” He didn’t mean for it to sound so depressing. He was only making an observation, drastic as it may be. It could happen to anyone. He laughed quietly, “Sorry. Shakespeare’s got me thinking all deep and shit.”

George returned the laugh and nudged him with his foot. “We should sleep. And maybe tomorrow we’ll find a less upsetting book.” Clay looked over and smiled tiredly. George had to blink; he felt as if he were seeing something unreal. The warm light from the bedside lamp softly illuminated his face, and in the light, George could see the blur of freckles brushed over the bridge of his nose. His usual edges had softened, and the years of hard work seemed to dissipate, leaving him… calm.

George tore his eyes away. “We’ll find a nicer story,” he repeated. “Goodnight, Clay.” Then Clay nudged him back, and when he returned to his own side of the room, George’s bed suddenly felt emptier than usual.

“What’s that one about?” Clay asked, peeking over George. He rested his chin in George’s hair, feeling the subtle movement of his breathing. He’d been following him around like a stray puppy since the moment he woke up. George would’ve found it annoying had he not been so endearing.

“Fairies, marriage, poison- “

“More poison?”

George shrugged. “It’s not one of his tragedies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“There you are!” The boys looked up to see Karl dragging Sapnap towards them. “We figured you’d be here.” He was in an awfully good mood. Sapnap had shown up to every class, albeit a bit late to gym. He was even dressed properly, down to the tie. Clay pinned that as Karl’s doing; he knew Sapnap was incapable of tying even a decent Windsor knot. Yet, for the past few weeks, he had been a _decent student._

Sapnap raised an eyebrow at the sight of them. Clay raised both of his back, shifting his eyes between him and George and smiling dopily. He said to Karl, “We’re finding another play.”

“You finished Romeo and Juliet?”

“Last night, yeah.”

“Yeah? How’d it end?” Sapnap asked. George’s head shot up in disbelief. “What?”

“Excuse me, boys?” The four of them turned immediately at the sound of the croaky voice. The Old Man was awake, and he was speaking to them.

Clay was the first to answer. “Sir?”

He called them over with a bony finger. They circled around the desk, curiously leaning in to hear. “You seem to be in here often.” With the exception of Sapnap, they nodded. “How would you like a project?”

“We’re totally being ripped off,” Sapnap said bitterly. He tapped his pencil against the long table in the art room. “He literally just gave us a _job._ And we’re not even getting paid!”

“Can’t we just help him out? He’s an old man,” George said.

“You guys can help him out. I am not reading Shakespeare, going to class, and volunteering in a library all in the same couple of weeks,” he replied dramatically. Karl rolled his eyes but didn’t try to reason with him. He’d already made a large amount of progress. He was far from perfect, of course, but his baby steps had been effective.

In class, he took his notes. He did his homework, even if the other three had to force him to finish it during their study group. He was (mostly) sober during the day, and he got his fix at night, when they went out for meetings. He read half-assed poetry that was strangely inappropriate, but he read nonetheless. Progress. 

George shrugged. “I’m in there all the time anyways, so it’s only right that I try fixing it up a bit. I always thought it could use some maintenance.” He kept his words to a minimum, but really, he was plotting in his head, imagining just how he could recreate the sad little building. The dust had to go. The chairs had to go as well - they smelled of age and wear. The barren walls held no life in them, and it was completely unacceptable in a place so full of characters and stories.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Captain himself. “Boys!” he shouted upon entering the room, scaring them all out of their seats. He laughed loudly to himself, clutching his shirt. “Boys, we are approaching the end… of the first quarter!”

They exchanged estranged expressions. _Has it been that long already?_

He continued, “For your mid-term, you have a project.”

“Another project,” Sapnap muttered.

“This won’t be one of those long, dragging research projects, no, no. I want you boys to express yourselves, and I want you to do it in any way you see fit. You are the artist. You are the subject, and you have free reign.”

They watched him circle the room, maintaining eye contact with various students as he passed.

“What will you do with your freedom?”

He stopped behind his desk, and from it, produced paints and brushes, charcoals and pastels, papers and small canvases of all kinds.

“Show me, in the way best suited for you, what you are driven by. What you are passionate about!”

Behind him was an easel. Its display was dramatically revealed as Captain snatched the corner of its sheet cover in his hand and pulled it away.

“My family,” he said, care and adoration evident in his voice, “my flame.”

The canvas was a depiction of faceless blue silhouettes. They were turned away from the viewers, standing side by side in an equally dark field. The whole canvas was blue, in fact, from the glow of the aquamarine sky to the shadows of the wind-ruffled grass. White dots were splattered across the sky. Stars. A hazy purple contrasted against the aquamarine, casting the heavy feeling of sleep over the scene.

The figures varied in height, but the angle of the image made them all seem tall. Two were thin and lanky, looking up to the sky. One looked to the side. His long hair blew behind him. The man in the center, shorter than the rest, had wings. They stretched over an even smaller person, a boy under the man’s protection. Even without his face, Captain was easily identifiable. He _was_ his painting.

As he studied the artwork, Clay wondered what he would do. He’d always enjoyed painting, but it was an old, abandoned hobby. He needed the art class to graduate, but he wasn’t aiming to create something amazing. Something that was the scale of Captain’s work… it seemed impossible.

“What is your flame?”

He thought, and he thought harder, and when he realized that there was nothing coming to mind, he stopped thinking. It was impossible. He had no flame.

Then he was at football practice. He’d made it through tryouts. Of course he had. It was the one thing he knew outside the walls of Carmelo, and it was _still_ Carmelo. He considered asking George if it was sad to have no life, but he feared that he’d say yes, so instead, he’d pardoned himself from the group and rushed over to the locker rooms.

The whistle blew, and then he was running, running as fast as his legs would take him. He squinted into the sky, following the ball down to the end of the field. If he was running out of breath beneath the helmet, he didn’t notice. He leapt into the air, felt the thud against his chest as he hugged the ball to him, and braced for impact before he hit the ground.

When he looked up, he didn’t have to squint anymore. The sky was cloudy. He inhaled deeply, committing the scent of the grass to memory, and exhaled, slow and steady. Before, a catch like that would have sent electricity down his spine and throughout his veins. The cheers of the crowds would fill his chest with pride, with joy, with anything that made him feel like more than just… a model.

But he was still here. He was still a model student, vapid and empty and smiling on pamphlets, inviting people to a place that he didn’t even particularly like. Three years of working, of training, of playing for Carmelo’s side, and it amounted to him on the grass, feeling nothing.

Football was not his flame. It might have been at one point, but now it was just a spark that was unable to grow. _Do I have one?_ he thought. _Do I even have a flame?_

“Clay!” someone called in the distance. He propped himself up on his elbows, quickly excited by the voice. On the edge of the field, George stood waving. He looked tinier than usual from such a distance, and the sight made Clay grin. He waved back, reveling in the warmth spreading through his chest.

Then he realized: he didn’t need a crowd anymore. He could still feel the pride and the fulfillment, but he didn’t need hundreds of people cheering him on. He only needed one.

Karl and Sapnap approached George from behind, making their presence known by playfully poking him in the sides. They waved as well, and despite their frequent arguing that year, Clay loved them both. His best friends, his schoolmates, his family…

Still, his eyes always found their way back to him. Even from the ground, Clay could see the bashful smile on George’s face. When he looked at him, Clay could hear all the sorrow and joy and humor from the poetry. He’d woken him up that morning; he recalled the calm sighs of sleep that escaped his lips as he stirred into consciousness. Clay could still see the faint pink glow that the rising sun cast over his soft face. He slid his thumb over his cheekbone before calling his name - or at least, he wanted to.

He was just too scared.

_“They died?!”_

George couldn’t contain his laughter as Sapnap jumped up from his flat stone bench, scaring the life out of Karl. He hid his grin behind Clay’s shoulder, pretending to be scared of the angry audience. “Clay! Help me!” he cried.

“George, _what the hell?_ They _died?”_ He was hopping from place to place now, trying to find an opening so as to yell at George up close. Clay ducked in front of him time and time again, acting as George’s human shield. It was hard to maintain the intimidating, deadpan expression on his face when he was being so _distracting._

His bubbly laughter was much too loud for a secret society meeting. His small hands clung to Clay’s winter coat, tugging him close enough so that his chest was pressed against his back. He squeaked and moved closer, hiding his face from Sapnap by burying it in Clay’s shoulder.

Clay was finding it hard to breathe.

Finally, he put a stop to Sapnap’s attempted attacks by placing a palm over his forehead and gently pushing him away. George peeked up, still beaming, and bumped his chin against his roommate. “This is your own fault, Sapnap,” he giggled. “You and Clay should’ve known already!”

“And how was I supposed to know that?” he huffed, dropping back down into his seat. Karl gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, as if offering condolences for the couple’s deaths.

“Literally everyone knows how it ends!” Sapnap wasn’t any happier with that response. George added, “If it makes you feel any better, the next one I plan on reading isn’t as sad.”

Clay smiled fondly as they carried on with their conversation. George had already started reading the book to him. He always wondered if it was a bother to read and reread all of it for him and the society, but George never seemed to mind. In fact, he had been more and more eager to read as of late. Clay always loved it when he was excited about something. He loved being able to share that with him.

And as much as he loved the meetings and the Society, he couldn’t help but wish that the things he shared with George could stay theirs. The late nights, the readings, the calmed smiles… he wanted to be the only one. And he wasn’t sure just what that meant, but he liked the feeling it gave him when he thought about it. It felt like burning, like melting, like fire. It felt like his flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> slow, slooow process


	6. santa fe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group has separated into two halves: the simps and the oblivious simpees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

“G’night guys,” Karl yawned, waving as their friends packed up their books. As he passed behind their chairs, Clay ruffled both his and Sapnap’s hair. He’d been strangely touchy like that lately; for the past week, he’d been nicer to everyone, even if they weren’t George. It was freaking Sapnap out. He watched Clay take George’s bag as they left the common room.

“You ready to go too?” Sapnap blinked. Karl was talking to him now. _Is he? ...of course, idiot, who else?_

“Yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. ‘M tired.” He stared down at his half-finished precalculus homework and scrunched his nose up in disgust. “I swear, I’ve been working on this shit for so long now, I just might- _ugh!”_

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Stupid ass precal,” he huffed, throwing his pen against the table and crossing his arms like an angry toddler.

“Very mature,” Karl retorted. When Sapnap didn’t come back with an even saltier remark, he wished he could take it back. He walked over and silently took a seat on the armrest of his chair, sweeping his legs over the side.

“Get your feet off the chair, Karl.”

“Let me sit.” Sapnap scooted over to give him room. When he slid into the seat, they were squished together, arm to arm, leg to leg. Sapnap was impatiently tapping his hand on his knee. Karl reached over and stopped him, placing a soft hand over his without giving it a second thought. “I know you’ve been trying a lot harder.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t make a difference. Working hard doesn’t lessen how much bullcrap they dump on us.”

“True, but it makes a difference in your grades.”

“Okay, and?”

They stared at each other, dumbfounded. Had they not been alone, they most definitely would have been judged for having the world’s dumbest sleep-deprived conversation. Karl said slowly, “And so you have better grades…?”

Sapnap took a moment to process this, squinting at the wall behind Karl. Then he said, even slower, “Karl… I don’t give a _fuck_ about better grades.” He turned so that he was holding eye contact with him. Their legs brushed against each other as he moved. “I don’t even like this place. And I don’t see a single reason why I should keep going if I’m gonna be miserable either way.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Karl sighed. “And I’m sure there’s at least one reason for you to stick around.”

“Name one,” he snapped.

“Uh, _me,”_ Karl said with a bright smile. Despite his dwindling energy, he did his best to put forth a positive attitude in hopes that it would wash away some of Sapnap’s irritation. He didn’t respond, but his eyes did soften, and Karl took that as a signal to move in. He bumped his forehead affectionately against his shoulder and gave a weak laugh. “Not to be selfish, of course, but I’d like it if you stuck around here. And if it means anything, you’re doing good, work-wise.”

From anyone else, it wouldn’t have meant anything. Neither Clay nor George could dent his brick-wall mindset that easily. He looked down at Karl’s hair. He was still pressed against him, breathing steadily. Sapnap cautiously leaned down, resting his chin on the top of his head. Karl didn’t budge. “Thanks,” he mumbled, barely conscious. They sat there in silence for a long, strangely relaxing moment, resting their eyes. Then he said, “Can you… can you keep talking?” _You keep me calm,_ he wanted to add.

“Mmhm,” he hummed. He could do that, yeah. _Sure._ “This is kinda work-related again, but not really, y’know? I was thinking about the art class project, and I think I figured out what I wanted to- “

And then Sapnap’s mind switched into autopilot. He nodded when he needed to and laughed when he said something dorky, but his focus was split between Karl’s project and his own. _Did I figure out what I was gonna do yet?_ He thought back to the past few days in class. They had been working on sketches and underpaintings. Most people had been making progress. _No, no I did not, he realized._

He was in no way a painter. He hadn’t touched a paintbrush since grade school. At the beginning of the year, he had two options: art or debate. Between the two, he decided he’d rather humiliate himself on canvas than in speech. If he had his way, he would’ve tried out for- well…

“Nick?” He snapped out of his trance. Karl was mumbling against the sleeve of his blazer. He could feel his warmth seep in through the fabric. _So warm._ “We should go to sleep,” he said, looking up at him with lidded eyes.

“Come on then.”

“George,” Sapnap called at a volume unsuited for a library. George whipped his head around and urgently shushed him, jutting a finger to the snoozing Old Man, and waved him over. “George. I need help.” He was alone. Clay had practice and Karl, for some reason, insisted on talking to the chatty yearbook committee, and no way was he sticking around to hear their gossip.

“You need help,” he repeated, processing it, “from me?” He slid one last book into the newly polished shelf. There was a clear contrast between the first half of the shelves left in George’s path and the ones he had yet to clean. He set down the lemon-scented rag he was using and took a seat on the (clearly unstable) stepladder the Old Man provided for him.

“Okay, I know I’ve been kind of a dick for like, the entire time you’ve known me, but- “

“Sapnap,” he interrupted, giving him a reassuring smile, “I get it. I don’t think you’re a jerk or anything.” That was something of a white lie. At first, all he could make of Sapnap was that he was a stoner and a jerk to his friends (and a poetry-hating prick), but lately he’d changed, and it was clear to see why.

George prided himself on being able to read people. It was a skill he had developed over his many years of living vicariously through book characters. Sapnap was a Jack Kelly; he was trapped where he was, doing what he had to to drag through everyday life, and dreaming of a better place. He was in New York City, dreaming of the fields of Santa Fe. And like Jack, he was sticking around for his boys. Or, rather, one particular boy. “So what’d you need?” he asked him.

“You’re good at this ‘deeper understanding’ artsy stuff, and I was kinda hoping you could give me an idea of what to do for my project. I’m a little stuck.” George nodded.

“Well, it’s supposed to be about something important to you, so I can’t just give you a subject.”

Sapnap frowned, staring at the rows of books in front of him. “Oh.”

George quickly added, “But I can still help! Uhm- what I did was think about something that always seemed to be on my mind. Something important enough to influence me.”

“Are you doing a painting? Clay is.”

“Oh no, not me. I asked Captain if a poem would be okay.”

“Is it?”

“Anything is okay, as long as you put effort into making it your own. I guess poetry counts as art.” At least one class at Carmelo wasn’t a total stick in the mud. Sapnap mentally thanked whatever gods were out there for blessing them with the Captain.

He was debating whether or not he should actually tell George the other thought plaguing his mind. _Would he think it’s weird? No, he’s too nice to care- but I don’t want him to say anything to the others. Can I trust him? Can I…?_

“So something important, huh?” he started. “There’s this one thing that’s been on my mind lately, but I don’t know how to turn it into a project.”

“Well, what is it?” George asked. Sapnap stared at him with a somewhat pained expression, almost like he couldn’t bring himself to say. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

But he did want to. He wanted to get it off his chest, and he wanted at least one person to share his burden with, but he was still… confused. George could help him figure it out. He could be that person, and Sapnap trusted him. But still he said, “Thanks, George. It’s nothing super personal or anything, I’m just a little conflicted on it.” _God, I am such a good liar._

George simply nodded, much to his relief. He wasn’t let down by his lack of an answer. He was good at not expecting things from people, Sapnap noticed. He carried himself, and it meant people couldn’t disappoint him. “Okay, well, could you at least tell me how this thing makes you feel? Maybe that’ll give you a place to start on your project.”

That he could do. Sapnap said, “I feel happier, I guess. Definitely calmer. And when I think about this person- thing, I want to be better. So it’s good, but it’s also not, and- God, I sound like such an idiot, huh?” He laughed in frustration and pushed the hair away from his eyes. George shrugged indifferently, which was not exactly comforting, but he continued, “Sometimes when I think about this thing, it’s goddamn frustrating. Like even when I don’t want to be thinking about it, I can’t stop, and it’s like I can feel my brain rotting or something because all I can think of is- “

“Nick?”

His head had never turned so quickly before. He might’ve broken his neck had he looked for the source of the voice any faster. Through the gaps in the books, Sapnap could see Karl wandering the library, searching for him. He willed his heart to calm itself, and when it didn’t, he blamed it on the sudden scare.

George could see it so clearly. Before their conversation came to an end, he took the chance to give his last words of advice. “So it’s like... your brain is rotting, you said? Brain rot,” he muttered thoughtfully, more to himself than anything. _Brainrot._ “That’s… strange. But it’s a start. I think if you feel that strongly about something then it must be your flame. You just have to figure out how to show your frustration.” He stopped himself from including joy. It seemed as if Sapnap would benefit more from putting out that inner conflict.

He nodded, taking George’s words into close consideration. Then Karl appeared, and Sapnap’s nerves seemed to shoot through the roof as he stammered and waved. _Shit,_ he thought, _I need a joint._ They waved again as they left in lieu of the courtyard. George stared after them, pondering the way Karl, aloof and blissfully unaware, walked too close to Sapnap. He pondered the way Sapnap tried too hard to play it cool, shoving his hands deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t tap them against his leg.

George understood why he hadn’t disclosed what was on his mind. He wouldn’t have judged, of course; he was not that type of person. For all he knew, Sapnap was still figuring things out. But as they walked together, arms nearly touching and smiles soft and bright, it looked to George as if Sapnap had more than a reason to stay in New York. To him, it looked like he had also found his Santa Fe. He just might not know it yet.

_“Clay!”_

He snapped out of his stupor just in time to clumsily catch the ball. His teammate (who was more of a rival) jogged over, shaking his head in annoyance as Clay’s hands fumbled. Techno - _T,_ as he had signed on the tryouts sheet - snatched it from his hands with a frustrated sigh.

“Man,” he said, “will you hurry up and figure out what is eating you already?” Clay stared back at him, feeling dumber than ever. Techno’s expression morphed from annoyed to disbelieving. “You’re clearly distracted! If I hadn’t called your name, that last throw would’ve clocked you in the head!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled in reply, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m a little distracted.” Then Techno scrunched his nose up, confused, and returned to his spot to practice another throw. Clay took a deep breath and trained his eyes to the ball. _In, out. In- oh, shit!_

The ball smacked him square in the forehead, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbled back, dizzy from the impact. When his vision cleared, Techno was approaching him once again.

He gave him a onceover, making sure he wasn’t terribly hurt or bleeding. When Clay was cleared, he shook his head again, grabbing the ball off the ground and saying, “Just go. I don’t know if you’re just having an off-day or something, but whatever it is is getting in the way of our practice.”

Their teammates watched Clay walk off, some discreetly and others without shame. They were out of earshot, but it didn’t matter. Even they could tell that their star athlete was completely out of it lately. They just couldn’t figure out why. He gave Techno another apologetic glance over his shoulder as he stepped off the field.

But he had no time to be upset over it. He checked his watch. If he rushed in the locker room, he would still have… _seven minutes left, he should still be in the library._ He smiled.

Toby was watching the chalk squeak along the blackboard. He wanted to sleep.

Tommy had been watching the chalk as well, at least until the urge to gouge out his own eyes grew too strong. Then he turned to his left, staring outside the somewhat cloudy window overlooking the field. For once, something interesting was happening outside. He kept his eyes on the students scattering across the lawn, carrying various white canvas boards and notebooks with them.

Toby felt something smack the back of his neck, and when he turned around, he saw a paper ball on the floor. He quickly reached over to pick it up, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice. _“Tubbo!”_ Tommy whispered, sticking his foot out and wiggling it to get his attention. He pointed out the window, beaming, and mouthed, _Wilbur! It’s Wilbur!_

Sure enough, Wilbur was stretched out on the lawn, sitting with his long legs in front of him. He looked to be writing on the book in his lap, but from such a distance, they couldn’t tell for sure. Tommy realized that must have been the art class he’d heard so much (too much) about. He always said his brother was lucky to have that elective instead of whatever… well, he couldn’t even remember _what_ class he was in.

Wilbur would continue on and on about that group of boys, the ones that just 'seem larger than life'. Tommy didn’t believe such a group existed, that Wilbur only thought of it that way because he chose to be small, but he searched for them nonetheless. If they were as interesting as they were described to be, he’d surely be able to spot them in an open field.

_Is that them?_ Tubbo mouthed and pointed out his own window, not yet realizing that Tommy couldn’t see what the hell he was pointing at. When he looked back to the boys, he found a group of four sitting not too far from his brother. Among them, they had unintentionally separated into two groups of two. The one with the black hair was examining his partner’s sketch. The other two were leaned back in the grass, balancing on their elbows. Tommy squinted and leaned closer to the glass. _That blonde one looks awfully familiar,_ he thought.

They looked peaceful down there. They even looked like they were having fun, which was a rarity on the campus, especially in class. Tommy frowned, unable to hide the bitterness he felt towards them. It simply wasn’t fair; had the class had just two more empty spots, he and Tubbo would be enjoying time in the field as well. Instead, they kept watching from the windows, wondering what they were missing out on, wishing they could do more.

Out in the grass, Clay was listening to George ramble. He’d found him in the library earlier, wiping away at the layers of dust coating the shelves. They spent the remainder of lunch cleaning and talking about nonsense, finding a natural flow. Clay had never felt more comfortable, and George’s good mood seemed to indicate the same thing.

“My project’s almost done already,” he said. “I figured I’d just leave it alone for now and enjoy the outdoors. I’ll have time to finish it later.”

“Oh,” he said, admittedly disappointed, “I was hoping you’d read it to me.” He pulled his best sad puppy eyes and pouted mockingly, leaning lower and closer to George.

He laughed softly and playfully pushed him away. “You can wait to hear it just like everyone else,” he said. Clay didn’t like that at all. He didn’t want to be like everyone else to him, he wanted to be the first, the exception, the one and only person to-

“But I do have this other one I’ve been trying to memorize,” he said.

“Will you tell me that one?”

“Maybe when I finish memorizing it. I'll probably have it down in a few days.”

“George,” Clay whined, “just tell me already! Please!”

George laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, okay! Just- it’s gonna be short.” He avoided looking directly at Clay. He felt that making eye contact in the moment would make him implode. He bit his lip as he calmed his nerves and tried to ignore the fact that Clay was watching, waiting. For someone who didn’t expect much from anyone, George was pretty intent on being impressive himself. “Passing stranger,” he started, “you do not know how longingly I look upon you.”

His eyes, for a fleeting moment, returned Clay’s stare. He quickly looked away, wondering why he _looked_ at him like that. Like he was the only person in the world. “You must be she I was seeking,” he said, putting a great deal of effort into breathing correctly, “or he I was seeking - it comes to me as of a dream - I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.” _All is recall’d as we flit by each other…_

__He continued the poem in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. He just couldn’t do it when Clay was so damn distracting. Instead, he finished, “That’s Whitman.”_ _

__“Uncle Walt!” Captain said behind them, making them shoot up into proper sitting positions. “‘To a Stranger’, yes?” George nodded shakily, turning pale from the shock. The Captain looked between his two students, scanning over the progress of their work. One had a sketchbook open on his lap, turned to a page with a light, geometric sketch. He asked, “How goes the sketching, Mr. Clay?”_ _

__He smiled sheepishly and looked down at his book. “I’m still figuring out what it is, Captain. I know what I want it to be about, I just need to figure out how to put it on paper.” George thought back to his chat with Sapnap in the library and looked a few feet away to check on his friends. They were arguing about something again, but it looked friendly. Maybe more than friendly. George wondered what Clay’s Santa Fe was._ _

__When he tuned back into the conversation, it was already over. Captain had moved onto the next cluster of students, and Clay had returned to his deep-in-thought haze. “That one line - the one about the dream. I liked the way you said it,” he said, recalling the words. When he couldn’t replicate the sound in his mind, he said to himself, “Dream. It just sounds nice when you say it.”_ _

__“What?” George laughed. “Dream?” Clay nodded as a smile spread across his face. “You’re so weird,” he scoffed, shaking his head. Despite his words, George found himself smiling too._ _

__“Say it again,” Clay said._ _

“No!” he laughed - _giggled,_ like a girl in grade school attempting to flirt with her crush. His ears heated with embarrassment and he playfully shoved Clay’s shoulder again. “You’re such an idiot,” he said.

__“Aw, don’t say that, Georgie,” he said, feigning hurt. They continued to tease back and forth, George calling him weird and Clay being as clingy as he could without actually overstepping. He couldn’t focus on any of it, really; he was busy replaying the poem in his head._ _

__From his understanding, the person was looking for someone from their past, but someone who was a stranger. He wondered what it meant, if anything, that the dream could’ve been either a girl or boy. He wondered if it meant anything when George took that moment to look back at him. Then he wondered if he was reading into things just a little too much._ _

__

__“Penny for your thoughts?”_ _

__It had become a nightly routine for Clay to ask George what was on his mind. One night, they had been so exhausted that they simply passed out, and the next day was extra horrible to them. Since then, they never missed a night. George called it stupid superstition, Clay called it a sign. Either way, they made sure to check on each other every night._ _

__George considered telling him about his interaction in the library that day, but quickly decided it was not his place. If Sapnap had come to him instead of Clay for help, and if he couldn’t even tell him exactly what was on his mind, then it wasn’t right for George to spread his business. Instead, he said, “I don’t actually have anything right now. My mind’s pretty clear.”_ _

__“Really?” Usually it was Clay who had nothing to discuss. He slowly opened up to George, of course, but in the beginning, he kept it so that his personal problems stayed personal. Besides, he couldn’t throw his burden onto George when the poor boy was already dealing with his new life at Carmelo._ _

__George hummed. “Penny for yours?”_ _

__“Thinking about that poem.”_ _

__“Still?” George laughed, looking over at him. Clay turned on his side so that they were facing each other across the gap between their beds. Their eyes, wide and full of life, seemed to glow to each other in the dark._ _

__He nodded and said, “What do you think it’s about, George?”_ _

__He was quick to answer, having already given the topic a lot of thought. “It’s something about having a soulmate, I think. How even if you get reborn and start as strangers again, you’ll still have that connection.”_ _

__“Do you think you have a soulmate?”_ _

__“Who knows,” George said indifferently._ _

__Clay bit his tongue and tried to mask his disappointment. He was hoping for a better answer. George was usually good at that, but… “What about that dream?”_ _

__“What about it?”_ _

__“The part where he says it could be about a girl or… his dream could be a boy too. That part.”_ _

__“Oh,” he replied, blinking at the ground. “If you think I’m going to judge that then you’re wrong. It’s not- I don’t care, I’m just analyzing the poem.” The air between them grew tighter, like the conversation was one that they should not be having. Still, Clay deemed it necessary. He had to know. “I’m not bothered by gay people, Clay.”_ _

__“Okay,” he replied. “I’m not either.”_ _

__“Okay.” Then George added, “...good.”_ _

__Clay smiled. “The dream part is still my favorite.”_ _

__“Is this still about the way I say it?” George asked flatly._ _

__“Say what?” Clay asked slyly._ _

__“You’re an idiot.”_ _

__“What!” he laughed, struggling to keep his volume low. “George! Just say it!”_ _

“Goodnight, dream- _Clay!_ Goodnight, Clay!” he stammered, pulling the blanket over his head. As Clay wheezed, he made a discontented groan under the sheet. “You’re so weird! It’s just a word, you’re totally obsessed.” He peeked out over the edge of the blanket to shoot him an accusing glare.

“I wouldn’t say _obsessed,”_ he said, still grinning. He wasn't typically obsessed with little things like that. He supposed George just had that effect on him. He started to drift off. He relaxed his head, still facing Clay, and gave him a sleepy smile. Clay’s breath caught in his throat and his mind went completely blank. All he could do was look.

They had the window cracked open an inch. As they ventured further into winter, the breeze that came in got colder and colder. In his daze, George shivered under the covers. Clay made a mental note to start shutting the window at night. That night, though, he allowed himself to watch the way George’s hair was ruffled with the wind. The way his half-lidded eyes slowly blinked shut. The way he _looked,_ like for once, he wasn’t stuck in his endlessly growing mountain of thoughts.

__Then, in his sleep, his brows furrowed again, and Clay wondered if he would ever truly let his mind be at peace. He didn’t wake up. He only sighed, pulled the blanket closer, and mumbled, “G’night, Dream.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> yes, newsies came out later than the year this is set but shhhH!!! close your eyes and pretend
> 
> btw,, this isn't going to be a huge plot-driven book. I intend for this to be more like a day-to-day life, coming of age thing where I can develop the characters. it'll still have plot of course but it follows their growth more than events

**Author's Note:**

> :)


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